Gangster's Court

by Adam Van Susteren

  With that, Milk turned and walked past Omar to leave from the back.

  Omar took off his suit coat, laying it on the table. He pulled his gun from the back of his belt and set it on the table before sitting down too. “Why are we here, Jose?”

  “Porque tu mata Rose.”

  Omar smirked. “I didn’t kill Rose.”

  “I dropped him off to get your car,” Jose responded, staring at Omar’s gun.

  “What did he tell you about me?”

  Jose’s eyes darted up to meet Omar’s. “Nada.”

  “He knew I would never mess with Thirteen. He was taking out a piggy cop. That little piggy must have not gone alone.”

  Omar noticed Jose checking him over for several seconds. Jose leaned back into the couch. “You think it was a cop?”

  Omar nodded.

  “Which one?”

  Omar smirked. “Pay me and I’ll find out.”

  Jose looked confused. “How you find out?”

  “Look around.” Omar waved his hand to display the law office. “I got lawyers. I got cops. I even got a judge. I can find out who did it in less than a week.”

  “How much?”

  “He gonna die, right?”

  Jose nodded.

  Omar looked at the ceiling, going Hollywood to make him appear deep in thought. “Cop dies that I ask about. Lotta heat. At least twenty grand.”

  Jose looked exasperated. “For a name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lot of old people,” Jose muttered quietly.

  “What?”

  “Something Rose taught me,” Jose said almost wistfully. “If you need a quick score, follow old fuckers who look like they in pain at the drug store—take they medicine. Chance to score full bottle of Oxy and whatever cash they got.”

  You’re such a piece of shit. Omar smirked, pretending not to judge. “Like an ATM.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you can’t get twenty together,” Omar said before staring down at his gun, “maybe you can do a job for me?”

  Jose leaned forward. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Omar paused, wondering what tale he would tell and if Jose was half as dumb as Rose. “No.” He shook his head. “You came to me under false pretenses, I can’t trust you.”

  Jose sunk deeper into the couch. “How I even know I can trust you? How I know you didn’t take out Rose?”

  “You can tell I’m a pretty smart guy, right?”

  “So.”

  “I’m too smart to mess with La Eme or Thirteen. I wouldn’t work against Rose.”

  Jose looked around the office, then at Omar’s suit coat on the table. “What if I wait ‘til you make your score, then just rob you?”

  “That’s what Rose would have done?” Omar asked.

  Jose nodded.

  “And he’s not here because he went after a cop without thinking it through all the way. There’s less money and more risk in killing people. Especially cops.”

  “I don’t have a choice. I have to find out who did it and take care of it.”

  Omar nodded knowingly. The prison gang La Eme and the street offshoot, MS-13, would require justice for killing Filthy Rose, a captain. This is why Omar needed a patsy. And this piece of shit was perfect. “You do this, you’re promoted?”

  Jose nodded. “I think so.”

  “If I get you the name, and you get in, will you back me if I need it?”

  Jose shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “If you get upped in Thirteen, you’ll need to have money for a crew. My business can lead to good money, but I need help sometimes.” Omar smirked.

  Jose stared at the blue carpet, deep in thought.

  “Well?” Omar asked.

  Jose looked up at Omar. “If you playin’ me. If you kill Rose—”

  “—If I killed Rose, I’d be dead already.” Omar shook his head. “Focus on the money we can make together. Think about getting into Thirteen.”

  The tiniest smile crossed Jose’s lips. “Okay. Jus don’t fuck wit me.”

  “I wouldn’t. I won’t. Give me a day, then text me at this number from a burner phone.” Omar wracked his brain for a phone number to give this guy. After a few seconds of pretending to try to remember, he thanked his extraordinary memory and called out the deceased Brad Gecina’s phone number.

  Jose tapped at his shorts pocket. “Ain’t got my phone. You got a pen?”

  Omar removed a thin silver Mont Blanc from his shirt pocket and tossed it to Jose. Jose dropped it and had to pick it up from the floor. Once situated with it, Omar repeated the number and watched Jose write it on his hand.

  “I text you tomorrow?”

  “From a new burner phone, yes. And I’ll get you the name and address of the cop who killed Rose.” Omar stood and tucked the gun into his waistband behind his back. He gestured to the back door.

  Jose stood. With mistrust in his voice, he said, “See ya soon.”

  No, you won’t. Omar followed three paces behind, watching Jose gather his belongings and exit the law office. Omar closed and locked the back door. Removing his black tie, he cursed at not having a cell phone of any kind on him as he walked to the middle of the law office.

  He glanced at his watch. If the bus was on time, he’d already missed it. He went to the windows in the front office, moved the cheap curtains, and frowned at the bus driving down the street.

  Omar stepped back from the window and looked at the grandfather clock on the wall behind the couches. The last trolley would be at the El Cajon station, a mile and a half away, in fifteen minutes.

  No time. Omar dropped his tie. He removed his pen from his shirt pocket, dropping it on the ground. After unbuttoning the top two buttons of his white dress shirt, he went out the front doors, locking them behind him. He started out at a fast jogging pace, shoes slipping on the ground, gun jostling hard in his back waistband.

  He stopped a few feet past the parking lot. No cars were on the road, but one could drive by soon. He couldn’t ditch his gun, but would never make it to the trolley station in time while worrying about it falling out.

  He pulled off his left shoe, filling it with his snub-nosed thirty-eight revolver. It mostly fit inside his shoe; the handle stuck out an inch. He would have to hold it in place with his hand. After he removed his other shoe, his socks began pounding the pavement at a fast pace.

  24

  “Browning,” a gravelly voice mumbled into the phone.

  “Sorry to wake you, Detective. It’s Jo Channing.” Jo nodded to her guest that someone answered.

  “What’s up?”

  Jo, seated at the kitchen island, cleared her throat. “I’m afraid there might be an attempt on your life.”

  A suddenly alert voice responded. “What?”

  “Yes. I understand that Jose Oliva has a rifle and intends to use it on you.”

  “How? Why? What?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have a lot of information. I just understand that he may make an attempt on your life.”

  “May? Or will? How am I supposed to get a warrant with that?”

  Jo stood, tightening the fluffy white robe over her long t-shirt. “You can’t. It’s not enough for a warrant. But watch him. Investigate. Have him pulled over for a traffic infraction and talk with him.” She grabbed a bottle of Record Wine’s Cabernet Sauvignon.

  Browning sighed. “I guess I should just thank you for the call. Is there anything else you can think of to tell me?”

  “I’m sorry. Be careful.” She walked to the cabinet with the wine glasses, turned around, held her phone to her chest, and whispered, “Want one?”

  Omar nodded.

  “Okay. Thanks for the call.”

  “Bye,” Jo said, waiting for Browning to end the call. She pulled out two wine glasses, replacing them with her cell phone, just in case someone was listening in, before closing the cabinet door.

  With a quick twist of the screw cap, which actually keeps wine better than a cork, Jo’s
shaky hands emptied half the bottle with two hefty pours. She raised her glass to Omar. “To trying to save a good man’s life.”

  Omar shook his head. “I should have been more honest in the beginning.”

  Jo set her glass down. “More honest?”

  “Can you turn the water on?”

  Jo cocked her head in curiosity, then turned the faucet on.

  Omar leaned forward. Jo followed suit until their faces were six inches apart. He whispered, “What I told you is true. Jose wants Browning dead and he has a rifle. But that’s not the whole story.”

  Jo closed her eyes. “Do I even want to know?”

  “Just this. Jose Oliva is a killer who robs the elderly for money and medicine. Only good will come from him being watched and arrested.”

  Jo opened her eyes. Omar’s face was so close she could kiss him. She felt an urge to kiss him and immediately pulled back. “Good,” she whispered, before taking a gulp of wine. She focused on his glass. Why did I pour him one to encourage him to stay? Stop looking at the outline of his chest through his damp white shirt.

  Omar took a small sip. “It’s good.”

  “It’s Dzuy’s favorite.” Jo turned the water off.

  “I like him. You guys getting married?”

  Jo blinked in disbelief. She just called a cop to tell him his life was being threatened, and resisted an urge to kiss Omar. And Omar was talking like everything was normal. “I think so. But we’re not engaged yet.”

  “But you’re living together?”

  Jo nodded. I wish he wasn’t out of town for work. She took a large sip of wine. “How about you? Do you have a special someone in your life?”

  “Not in a long time.” Omar looked down at his wine glass. “Hard to imagine I can find someone that will accept and fit into both sides of my life.”

  “I can only imagine.” Jo glanced at Omar’s face. The stubble on his cheeks might have flecks of gray, it was hard to tell. “Can I ask you something?”

  Omar nodded.

  “How old are you? Sometimes I think you could be in your early twenties, other times I think early forties. You look young but your gravitas makes you seem older.”

  Omar smirked. “Split the difference and you’re there.”

  “Thirty-three?”

  “Thirty-six.” Omar looked at Jo. “I feel the same way about your age. You look young. No gray hair. You’re fit. But you went to school and practiced law for ten years. I’d have to say you’re about the same age?”

  “Until next week. Then I’ll be thirty-seven.” Jo took another sip of wine. “Dzuy is forty,” she added, reminding herself that they were in Dzuy’s apartment and she was lucky to have him in her life.

  Omar’s eyes settled on a framed picture of Jo and Dzuy huddled together for a selfie at the top of a mountain. “How’d you meet?”

  An involuntary smile crossed Jo’s mouth. “At a T-Mobile store. He started talking to me. Such a smooth talker—and so handsome.”

  “When I’m ready, I’ll switch to T-Mobile to meet someone.”

  Jo forced a minor laugh. “Can I ask you another question?”

  “You can ask.”

  “You seem to have some money and are absolutely brilliant. Why do you work in such a risky field? I mean, you could do anything.”

  Omar smirked. “Be a banker?”

  “Why not?” Jo felt Omar’s stare.

  Omar shrugged. “Don’t know. Just always felt like it was the right thing for me.”

  Jo looked at Omar’s glass. “How about how you got started? Detective Browning told me a story about a girlfriend in high school.”

  Omar took a heavy breath. He looked like he wanted to open up, but he shut down, like he had deep pain that he was holding in for a moment.

  In that brief moment, Jo felt that she finally saw Omar’s humanity.

  “A story for a different day,” Omar said, sitting more upright and pushing his wine glass back towards Jo.

  “Are you okay?”

  Omar nodded and stood. “If Browning does his job, I think so.”

  25

  “The heck?!” Jo yelled upon the impact to the rear of her red Camry. Last day of traffic court and I get rear-ended pulling into the dang parking lot. She pulled up further and stopped. Only a few cars were there before the court opened to the public.

  She got out of the car and was confused. The driver exiting a silver seven series BMV was wearing a plain white t-shirt and tan shorts—not a hotshot lawyer. Even more confusing was his forehead, it looked like he had two horns implanted under his skin.

  “Sorry, guess we need to exchange information,” the man said in a strange accent. It was a Spanish accent but a hiss came through with every “s.”

  Jo moved her gaze to his front bumper; there was a slight dent. When she looked at her car, she could see she wasn’t quite as lucky. Her rear bumper was unrecognizable. “Looks like I got the worst of it.” She looked up at him, no longer confused and now completely nervous about his appearance. From her time as a prosecutor, she knew of MS-13—this man was almost certainly a member.

  Either you drove a stolen car to Court or you’re high up enough to legally own a hundred thousand dollar car.

  “We should move,” Jo said, pointing to the center of the parking lot. The bailiffs would be in the courthouse and hopefully will come out if they saw her with a dent in her car talking to this suspicious guy. But from this angle in the parking lot, no deputies could see her. Jo slowly backed to her open front door.

  “Hold on, Judge Channing,” the man said in a commanding tone.

  Holy shit. Holy fuck. Holy fucking shit.

  Jo felt unsteady on her heels as she continued to back away slowly. Her car offered some level of safety. If she could make it to the front of the Court, a bailiff with a gun would be there. Just past him were more friendly men with guns. Why don’t I have a gun? Does he have a gun?

  “I said stop.”

  “We have to clear the entry,” Jo said in a weak voice, slowly backing away like she would from a grizzly bear. “I’ll meet you in front.”

  “Stop or your family is dead. Then you.”

  Jo froze. “What do you want?”

  “Marcos Omar.”

  Jo’s heart thudded so loud she could hear her own pulse. Her eyes were so wide with fear she could feel the breeze against her eyeball. It caused her to blink. “Okay,” she said tersely. “But not here. Let me call you.”

  The man took two steps forward and put a cell phone on the top of Jo’s trunk. “For a Gangster judge, you scare easy.” He scoffed and took two steps backwards. “I’ll call you in five minutes.”

  Jo watched him get in his car, back up, and drive out of the parking lot. She stumbled and nearly fell over when she retrieved the phone.

  Once inside her car, she clicked the lock button and drove forward, double parking in front of the one story small claims and traffic courthouse. She wracked her brain for what to do. She only had a moment before that man, that thing, would call.

  “No front license plate,” Jo whispered to herself. The BMW didn’t have a front plate. She didn’t get a plate or a picture of the man. Her description of him would be helpful, a scary Mexican Darth Maul-type from Star Wars. “Think,” she commanded herself.

  With quick shallow breaths Jo sat in panic, staring at the rearview mirror to see if Darth Maul was coming back. She saw a police car enter the lot and turn into the private law enforcement lot. She would be safe today. Her family might not be. Omar wouldn’t be.

  I need the police and Omar. Jo held her breath for a second. She exhaled, took a deep breath. “Yes.”

  She dug into her purse and called Omar’s office line, the one she knew Detective Browning was tapping.

  “Hello?”

  “Omar?” Jo asked with excitement in her voice at him being at his office.

  “Yes.”

  Jo shook with relief. “If any law enforcement is listening in on this call, recor
d this. This is Judge Joanna P. Channing and a threat has been made against my life and my family’s life by a man who wants to kill Marcos Omar. He will be calling me any minute on another line.” Jo’s voice calmed as she spoke, oddly comforted by making a record. “He’s driving a silver BMV seven series, no front license plate, a little dent in the front bumper. He has tattoos and implants on his forehead that look like devil horns and he’s wearing a white t-shirt and tan shorts.”

  “Fuck,” Omar replied softly.

  “Do you have Browning’s number? Can you call him from another line?”

  “Yes. I’ll conference him.”

  Jo felt the line go silent for a second. She was startled when her other phone rang. “Hello?” She pressed the speakerphone button.

  “Glad you listened,” Darth Maul hissed. “No need for you or your family to die. Just help us.”

  “What do you want from me?” Jo looked over her shoulder to the right, then left, then the rearview mirror.

  “Omar killed Filthy Rose. Right?”

  “No. I think the police were looking at him for it, but he had an alibi. He was at a casino during the time of the shooting, so it couldn’t have been him.”

  “You’re not dumb, Gangster Judge. Are you?”

  Jo froze. “I. I. I don’t know.”

  “If your family dies tonight, I’m the one who killed them. Even if I don’t pull the trigger. Understand?”

  “You’re asking me if Marcos could have had someone else do it for him?”

  “Yes,” he hissed.

  “No – or yes. I mean he could have. But I don’t think he did.”

  “Jose was Rose’s best guy. Why would Jose kill the guy who was bringing him up?”

  “Money? Power? People kill people for anything. For nothing. I don’t know anything about Jose Oliva.”

  “Find out. You’ve got one hour.” Click.

  Jo looked at the new cell phone, frozen in disbelief.

  “Judge?” a gravelly voice called from her cell phone.

  “Browning?” she asked into her phone. What if the other phone is listening to me? Jo put it in her glove box.

  “What the hell’s happening?”